


Patience of an Angel

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale has been patient for much longer than Crowley suspects, so he doesn't waste the opportunity that arises after the not-actually-Apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience of an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the [Good Omens Holiday Exchange](http://go-exchange.livejournal.com/177287.html).

Aziraphale is an angel, and, as such, considers himself to be virtuous.

One of his foremost virtues is his patience, and he’s very proud of that (to such extent that a modicum of pride is deemed acceptable, as too much is unbecoming of any godly creature). It serves him well in his angelic duties, helping him to perform the Lord’s work unceasingly, even when discouraged or apparently thwarted. It serves him well in his personal interests as well—expanding his collection of books, for example, or building his relationship with Crowley. The demon has always seemed remarkably slow on the uptake for one who was so clever and, unlike Aziraphale, _openly_ proud of his cleverness.

Aziraphale’s patience is worn, but still holding— _tried_ , but found sufficient—after the rather hectic events of their superiors’ unsuccessful Apocalypse attempt. Lunch at the Ritz with Crowley has been a welcome return to the status quo, even if said status quo continues Crowley’s obliviousness to the tiny yet bold offers with which Aziraphale has peppered their interactions—a foot rubbing against Crowley’s leg (not, as he claimed when Crowley had started, an accident mistaking his companion for the table leg), a hand lingering on the table between them (beyond Aziraphale’s glinting silverware and even a hint beyond his sweating water goblet), and a brush of fingertips as Aziraphale reached for the bill just as Crowley would inevitably attempt to snatch it away.

Even after Aziraphale pays it, Crowley lingers, as if he was uncertain what to do next.

“Rather strange to keep moving on as usual after the end of the world, isn't it?” Aziraphale remarks.

“No stranger than how we’d been getting on, I suppose,” Crowley replies.

“Well,” Aziraphale ventures, gauging the demon’s mood. “Come over for tea then?”

Crowley shrugs by way of assent. “It's not like I have anything more pressing to do.”

Aziraphale curls his lip, the warm familiarity of their routine comforting him; the opportunity to pursue the next step in his plan excites him. He's waited a long time for the right moment, and those so often come on the heels of something drastic. There will never be a moment more opportune than this.

~

The attempted Apocalypse has shaken Crowley more than he would like to admit, and more than he had admitted, even to Aziraphale. While things settle back down, it’s a grim reminder that his pleasant pseudo-mortal existence is may not be eternal after all.

When Aziraphale invites Crowley back to the bookshop, Crowley doesn't think twice about it. He thinks twice, and many more times besides, about a host of other things, including his current relationship with the angel. Things will go back to normal, he supposes—or to whatever counts as normal between them.

In fact, he doesn't think twice about the current situation with Aziraphale until the angel invites Crowley not just back to the bookshop, but up to his _bedroom_ , and he agrees while realizing he's never been there before. It's small, almost cramped, with even more books on the shelves lining the room.

The two of them stand in awkward silence until Aziraphale gestures to the bed. Crowley sits down and makes a point of not showing that he’s startled when the angel sits surprisingly close. No, he takes that back; it’s not surprising at all. Their allegiances seem next to meaningless now, the boundaries between them worn down over the millennia; now, the last paper-thin pretext of opposition has been wadded up and tossed behind them, just as the last of the Great Plan has made way for what must be the Ineffable Plan.

The Ineffable Plan can be buggered right now, however, as Crowley feels a meaningful hand on his knee and another clearly intentional hand, on his cheek, turning him to face Aziraphale. He can see the hazy gray edges of the angel’s blue eyes behind his spectacles with a clarity he’s rarely had, if only because he has so infrequently gotten this close to the angel.

Crowley is suddenly very aware of his own hands, one sandwiched between him and Aziraphale, and the other curled up into a fist with unbecoming nervousness. His face feels warm, and he wills himself not to blush as he reaches over with his untrapped hand and places it on top of Aziraphale’s.

The kiss is expected, but it’s still something novel. Crowley’s embarrassed to think of it as climactic, but once Aziraphale’s lips touch his, everything seems to narrow to that sensation. His heart pounds furiously, the rhythm frantic in his ears. Why had they waited this long? How had they let their slow-burn flirting go on without any explicit hints—without Crowley tempting Aziraphale to do something about it? But _Aziraphale_ had proved himself the instigator instead. How many centuries had the angel been _thinking_ about this?

Aziraphale pulls back far too soon, and the taste of his lips lingers on Crowley’s. Before the demon can object, Aziraphale pulls his slipover jumper over his head. Crowley uses the moment to extricate the hand that had been stuck between them, though he’s still not quite sure what to do with it. Once the garment is off—and carefully laid on the nightstand—Aziraphale immediately places his hands on Crowley’s hips, and presses his lips back to Crowley’s mouth. The angel pulls back again after just a moment, his teeth biting hesitantly into his lower lip for a split second before he speaks.

“You can, er, take off the other shirt, if you’d like,” says Aziraphale, as helpful as ever.

“Yeah, okay,” Crowley responds breathlessly. He doesn’t hesitate to comply as Aziraphale crushes their mouths back together. If that’s what Aziraphale wants, that’s what he’ll do. His hands work quickly, starting with the top button, popping it free. He lets his fingers ghost against Aziraphale’s throat for an instant before moving down to the next. Once each and every button is undone, he tugs the bottom of the shirt free of Aziraphale’s gray corduroy trousers. Aziraphale stubbornly keeps kissing Crowley, sucking hungrily on the Crowley’s lower lip as Crowley attempts to figure out what to do with his hands next. He places them on Aziraphale’s chest, feeling soft pecs and small nipples, the latter of which harden under his touch.

A rather curious thought hits Crowley: if Aziraphale has nipples, he almost certainly has all the other attributes of mortal form, staying true to human anatomy even in places that aren’t so readily visible. Their true forms (Crowley hated that term, for he, at least, felt more comfortable in the body he had chosen for himself than in his original snake-like form) lacked the secondary sex characteristics and accouterments of mortal, physical-reproductive creatures. Crowley’s body was equally identical to a human’s, but he had never gotten much use out of the parts. There were much more interesting modes of corruption than lust, and, despite a few attempts centuries ago at experimenting with lustful pleasures (which was only fitting after trying alcohol, smoking, gambling, politics, and other human vices), he’d found it honestly more intimidating and awkward than enjoyable. He’d never really experienced sexual attraction. Perhaps that isn’t the right word for what he feels _now_ , but he certainly feels tension and excitement, and his deep, complex emotional entanglement with Aziraphale is, given the circumstances, in full bloom.

Crowley’s hands slip down further, and he feels the indentation of the entirely unnecessary belly-button. Well, maybe not entirely unnecessary, as it serves as the anchor point for a soft trail of hair leading further down. Crowley’s fingers trace that line, and he’s surprised by just how much more enthusiastic Aziraphale proves he can be when Crowley’s fingertips rest on his belt buckle.

When Aziraphale withdraws from their kiss, hands tracing up Crowley’s sides, Crowley’s surprised to see that he’s practically panting. “May I take off your clothes?” he asks.

In their millenia together, Crowley realizes neither one of them has seen the other naked, not since they had settled into human forms. Perhaps even earlier, perhaps not since Crowley had ceased being Crawly.

“My dear, _may_ I?” The way that Aziraphale repeats it, a calm, measured inquiry in juxtaposition with the desperate fire in his eyes, makes Crowley wonder how long he’s been waiting to ask.

Why would Crowley ever deny his friend—his _partner_ —something so earnestly desired?

“Sure.” The word is casual, as trying terribly hard to keep his voice even is the intent, but the intonation reveals Crowley’s nervous hesitation in a rather embarrassing fashion.

“Stand up, please.” Aziraphale rises and steps away from the bed, and Crowley follows suit without thinking. Crowley would like to consider himself an independent thinker, only obedient to others’ whims when it’s convenient or an imperative, but he trusts Aziraphale implicitly—and is so attached to the angel’s happiness—that following the command comes naturally.

It’s a bit frightening, a lot thrilling, and more than a touch arousing.

Aziraphale strips Crowley’s tie and shirt, but doesn’t stop there. Soon, Crowley’s trousers, and then underwear, are removed, leaving him in nothing but his socks.

“This isn’t quite fair, is it?” Crowley remarks.

“Oh, I suppose not.” Aziraphale smiles slightly, a half-entertained, half-shy sort of look, or so Crowley thinks. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed, and I’ll fix that before I join you.”

Crowley hops back onto the bed, but makes a point to strip off his socks before lying down. He watches Aziraphale remove the remainder of his clothes and—wait, why _is_ he walking away from the bed?

The angel returns a minute later with a pair of white leather cuffs. Crowley’s mind flips to much harsher visions of manacles, scenes of torture from Hell and, worse, the Inquisition. But he doesn’t flinch as Aziraphale sinks down on the bed next to him.

“Is something the matter?” Aziraphale’s concern is clear in the lines of his face.

“No, not really,” Crowley says, focusing on his companion and pushing away his initial gut reaction. Frankly, he’s just a bit thrown by how completely dissimilar this whole situation is to his usual associations with any sort of restraints.

“I specifically got white custom-made instead of the more popular, dungeon-aesthetic designs,” the angel says with a bit of cautious enthusiasm peeking in through his half-shy, half-smug smile.

“Custom-made? That’s a bit presumptuous.” Crowley isn’t sure whether to be flattered, entertained, or uncomfortable, so all three emotions spin around in his mind.

“Not at all, dear boy. I knew you’d come ‘round; it was just a matter of when.”

“So you’ve been pining after me for ages, have you?” Crowley nearly laughs at how ludicrous he sounds.

“You have no idea.” Aziraphale’s response sounds like anything but a joke; indeed, there’s a hint of patronizing amusement behind it.

As Aziraphale secures the cuffs around his wrists, Crowley feels a little bit of queasiness in the pit of his stomach. But once Aziraphale kisses Crowley again, the uneasiness melts. It’s illogical after all; it’s not like these cuffs can actually stop him if he were to decide he wants to get out. It’s symbolic, the principle of the thing, that Crowley’s finally surrendering to Aziraphale’s desires—desires that Crowley hadn’t let himself imagine. The latter is about to change, he suspects.

Aziraphale shifts lower, peppering stray kisses down Crowley’s neck and collarbone. Shifting up against the pillows and straining his neck to watch, Crowley appreciates the undisguised adoration in Aziraphale’s face as he presses his lips against Crowley’s ribcage, his abdomen, his hipbones, his—oh for the _sweet_ love of—that’s definitely Aziraphale pressing his lips against Crowley’s cock.

Pleasure rises in Crowley furiously and fast, sweeping up his body in a whirlwind of lust and need and affection and ecstasy that’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced. He knows plenty about the theory of lust, but it’s all so academic in comparison; he’s never been invested in it, has never been the one mastered by it. This affection is something he’s been knowingly nursing for a long time, but it’s one thing to let it occasionally slip and quite another to let it lay him out, _literally_ naked and bound, for Aziraphale.

The technique is probably sloppy, and it’s certainly imperfect, but Aziraphale’s bobbing his head and using his tongue now, oh, and it feels like only moments before Crowley’s gripping the pillow, biting back a hiss, and bucking his hips as he comes.

When Aziraphale finally releases Crowley’s cock and pulls himself back up so that they can rest side by side, Crowley leans in for a kiss and tastes himself on the angel’s lips. The very human pleasure of sleep suddenly seems more appealing than it has in decades, although he realizes it’s entirely unfair and unhelpful right now.

“That was an experience,” Crowley says once he has breath for words. “Would you like, uh, something similar?”

“Not now.” Aziraphale reaches up to stroke the cuffs with one hand and places the other on Crowley’s chest. “I’m quite content merely having you for now, and I do think I’ve exhausted you rather quickly.”

Crowley scowls, but reads between the lines, reckoning that this means sleep is not merely expected, but _permissible_. He really means to not give in, and he wouldn’t if it had been either this or the aborted Apocalypse. Against both in quick succession, however, he doesn’t stand a chance.


End file.
